


the only motherfucker in the city who can stand me

by labeledbones



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labeledbones/pseuds/labeledbones
Summary: in which Timmy asks Saoirse to hang out with Armie while Timmy's in London and things get angsty and soft (this is Timmy/Saoirse at its heart but is, of course, also Armie/Timmy)





	the only motherfucker in the city who can stand me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "New York" by St. Vincent

 

He begs her over the phone. “Please, Saoirse, pleeeaasseee.” And, honestly, how can she resist him when he is far away and his voice sounds like he’s about 10 years old?

“For me,” he adds like he needs to, like she isn’t on his hook already. Like she wasn’t on that hook the second his name lit up her phone.

She likes to pretend like she wouldn’t do anything for him though.

“I don’t really know him,” she says. “We’ve met a few times and you were always there.”

“He likes you,” Timmy says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s convinced. “I’m sure he does. Who doesn’t like you?”

Saoirse laughs, stepping off the curb as she crosses Amsterdam. “Plenty of people, Timmy.”

Timmy makes a dismissive sound. “Okay, well, Armie likes you.”

“Who says I like him?” she half teases.

“Sersh,” Timmy says voice turning serious, stern.  
  
“He hasn’t always been great to you,” she adds, matching his sternness.

He goes quiet and she regrets bringing it up. She knows that he loves Armie, but sometimes she wishes he didn’t.

“That’s… Just, please? He sounded a little lost when we talked last night. Elizabeth’s in Texas and he has New York friends but they’re not, like,  _friends,_ you know?” He stops, sighs. “I just know how he gets when he doesn’t have someone close around and I thought it would be nice if you two got together.”

“So I’m your proxy?”

“No,” he groans. “I mean, kind of? I just think he’d appreciate it.”

“You’re a good friend,” she says, voice quiet.

She’s crossed into Central Park and stops under the shaded pergola by the lake. 

When her and Timmy were first getting to know each other, he would take her to different places in the city and tell her something about himself that related to that place: a feeling or a memory or anything. It became a game where she would stop at any random point and ask, “Here?” and he almost always had something to tell her.

She wants to ask him about this spot. She wants to know if there are still new things to know about him.

“Okay,” she says finally. “I’ll text him.”

He lets out a long breath, relieved. He says, “I love you, Sersh.”

She suddenly misses him fiercely and wants to have him there. They would go get a bottle of wine and sit in the grass, his head in her lap as she delicately placed dandelions in his hair.

She says, “You know that shady vine thing by the lake in Central Park?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

She shrugs, pressing the phone closer to her ear. “That’s where I am right now,” she says.

“I love that spot when it’s quiet and no one’s around,” he says.

She doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head back to keep herself from crying, her eyes looking up at the bits of blue sky peeking through the tangle of vines.

“Don’t tell him it was my idea,” he says, breaking through her silence.

She shakes her head trying to clear it and starts walking along the path again, her legs moving faster than before, like she’s trying to get away from something. “Of course,” she says. “He’ll never suspect you had anything to do with it.”

Timmy laughs, warm and soft and close to her, and she feels her legs burning, sweat beginning to drip down the back of her neck.

****

And now she’s sitting in a small coffee shop on 46th street, watching the door.   
  
She texts Timmy:  _he’s late._

**_probably stuck in rehearsal. he’ll be there._ **

And as if he’s been summoned, Armie walks through the door right at that moment. She watches him look for her and she realizes how overwhelming he is. Not just tall, not just broad shouldered, but something about his presence alone feels overwhelming even from across the room. And when he sees her finally and smiles, that is overwhelming too.

She stands up and isn’t sure if she should shake his head hand or hug him or just wave. Without Timmy, they’re really just two strangers getting coffee at 3 in the afternoon. But he prevents any awkwardness by immediately going in for a hug, loose and friendly, casual.

He drops into the seat across from her and his knees knock into hers. “Sorry,” he says, scooting his chair back. “I’m too big for most tables.”

“I can see that,” she says.

His smile falters, detecting a coldness in her voice, and he meets her gaze. They sit there and size each other up like two dogs trying to decide if the other is a threat or not.

Eventually she doors her eyes and picks up her mug of tea. “Did you want to order something?” she asks, trying to sound friendly.

“Right, of course,” he says, getting back up and going over to the counter.

She sneaks a picture of the back of him as he orders and sends it to Timmy:  _he’s here. has he always been this big?_

**_you have no idea_** _,_ Timmy texts back.

_i’m sorry i asked._ She drops her phone in her bag quickly when Armie sits back down across from her.

“So,” he says, wrapping a hand around his mug. “This is weird.”

Saoirse laughs abruptly. “It really fucking is.”

His eyes go to her phone buzzing in her purse. “I know this was his idea,” he says. Saoirse is struck by the familiar warmth in his voice on the word ‘his.’

“He didn’t want me to tell you,” she says, pulling her phone out, but angling it so Armie can’t see the text that just says:  ** _be nice to him please._**

“Is that him?” Armie asks, smiling, his cheeks actually turning red.

“Maybe,” Saoirse says and puts her phone face down on the table.

Armie laughs and looks down at his coffee. Saoirse takes him in: this giant man, whose affection seems to be oozing from his pores, his big hands enveloping his mug, his smile when he looks back up somehow easy and overpowering at the same time. She understands something then: how easy it would be to let him take you over, like surrendering to a strong tide, your limbs tired of resisting.

“I’m really lucky, aren’t I?” he asks, meeting her eyes, genuinely asking her to confirm this for him.

She is angry he doesn’t know already, but she also knows what it’s like to not fully understand that someone like Timmy exists and that he loves you. Then again, Timmy doesn’t love her the way he loves Armie. She thinks if he did love her that way — fully, completely, full bodied — she wouldn’t need to be reminded, she wouldn’t ever doubt it for a second.

“You are,” she says simply.

Armie just nods in response. He shifts in his seat and pulls his own phone out of his pocket. “Guess who,” he says, smiling at his screen and typing something back.

It’s all Saoirse can do not to bend across the table to see what they’re saying to each other. She does her best to ignore how her stomach twists. She flips her phone back over and the screen lights up showing no new messages.

She looks away, out the window. It starts to rain.

“He’s nervous about filming starting up,” Armie says. “He’s on his way to Cardiff right now.” He glances down at his phone when it buzzes again and laughs, holding it up for Saoirse: a picture of Timmy on a train, neck pillow on, curls a mess, a soft smile.

She picks up her mug and just says, “That stupid neck pillow.” And then, “He’s always so nervous when he’s starting something new.”

Armie nods. “And then he’s in it and, of course, he’s fine, he’s amazing.”

Saoirse grins, holding the mug up to her mouth. “He’s always like ‘what if I’m no good, Sersh?’ And it’s infuriating because he’s incredible at almost literally everything.”

Armie shakes his head fondly. “The thing is he can be so fucking cocky sometimes and then other times he’s an anxious wreck.”

Saoirse points a finger at him, her other hand putting her mug down hard against the table. “Yes! And when he walks into a room with that little hip swagger of his and you just know he’s going to be a cocky little shit all night and you’re going to eat it up?”

“And you also know that by the middle of the night he’ll revert back to small, timid, uncertain Timmy and you’ll eat that up too, because he needs you,” Armie says, his cheeks bright red, his smile wide.

Saoirse stops though, because she’s known Timmy to be timid, but this Timmy is clearly someone only Armie gets to know. Armie is talking about the Timmy he wakes up to at 4 in the morning, arms winding around Armie’s waist, pulling him closer. Armie isn’t just talking about the Timmy who calls her when he can’t decide what to wear, or when he doesn’t know if he should take on a certain project.

Armie has seen Timmy’s entire soul laid out in front of him and Saoirse knows she’s only seen the edges of it.  

She blinks and realizes Armie’s been watching her. He says, “You love him.”

It makes her angry, the tone of his voice, that he assumes he knows something about her, that he’s right. “Of course I do,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “Everyone does.”

“Right,” Armie says, believing her about as much as she believes herself.

Her phone buzzes:  ** _how’s it going??_**

She ignores it.

“Did you know this coffee shop is where he told his mom about you?” She asks because she is trying to prove something: that she knows Timmy better, that they have secrets too, that there are parts of Timmy Armie doesn’t get to see.

“Yes,” Armie says, surprising her. “He called me crying from that corner out there.” He points out the window. “He was so relieved and happy. He told me he loved me for the first time.”

Timmy had left this out of the story he’d told Saoirse. She feels betrayed somehow, and then guilty because Timmy is allowed private moments, he is allowed to keep some things between him and Armie. He doesn’t owe her anything.

“He’s my best friend,” she says, more to remind herself.

Her phone again: **_i can’t believe you two are together without me. i miss you guys so much._**

“He misses us,” she say, smiling sadly.

Armie sits back in his chair and looks out at the rain pouring down on the street and the cars and the people darting from one awning to the next. “It’s weird to be in this place without him,” he says.

“I know,” Saoirse rests her chin in her hand. “There’s so much of him here.”

They sit in silence together watching the street, safe and dry in their corner of the cafe, thinking about this person they both love.

“I thought you and Greta were — ” he says suddenly, clearing his throat.

“ _Were_  being the operative word,” she says. She gathers herself up, sitting up straight and squaring her shoulders. “It was complicated.”

Armie looks at her, his eyes softening. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Saoirse shrugs. “Don’t be. It was good while it was happening and now it’s over, that’s all.”

They lapse into another silence but she can almost hear Armie thinking across from her. She doesn’t want to talk about anything anymore, not Greta, not Timmy, not anything. She is lonely and wants to go home and lie on her couch and listen to the rain against the window.

But Armie says, “It’s okay if you’re in love with him.”

“I’m not,” she says, too quickly.

“He’s in love with you too,” he adds.

“I don’t think so.” She starts to gather her things, wanting to be anywhere else now.

Armie holds his hands up defensively. “Okay,” is all he says.

It’s still raining when they leave the coffee shop and Armie just stands there getting wet while she pulls out her umbrella.

“I’m not used to having to walk so much,” he says, lifting his soaked shoulders.

“You’ll learn,” Saoirse offers, smiling at him.

“Which way are you going?” he asks.

“Uptown.”

“Downtown,” he says, nodding and giving her a small wave as he turns to go.

“Wait,” she calls out to him over the rain. He turns back, water dripping from his nose now. “Is he really in love with me?”

Armie just laughs. “You should ask him,” he says, walking away.

****

She’s sitting up in bed that night, phone propped against her thighs. “It was actually nice,” she says.

Timmy’s face is sleepy on her screen, a long day of work and the five hour time difference tugging on him. He smiles softly. “I knew it,” he says. “You guys are best friends now.”

Saoirse scrunches her nose up. “Wouldn’t go that far. We mostly talked about you,” she says. “Which is why it was so nice.”

She can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed at this point. She can just see his happy little eyelashes fanned against his cheeks. “My two favorite people,” he says.

“How was everything today?” she asks, wanting to change the subject.

He sits up at the question, pushing his hair out of his face. “Mostly just technical stuff, wardrobe, blocking, you know. Boring stuff,” he says, but he’s grinning. “I’m really fucking excited.”

She grins too, reaches a hand out to touch the corner of his mouth on the screen, knowing he can’t see her do it. “Armie thinks you’re in love with me, by the way.”

Timmy drops dramatically into his pillow, covering his face with his hands. “He didn’t say that,” he groans.

“He did.”

Saoirse wants to keep teasing him, loves when he gets embarrassed like this, how his throat turns pink all the way down to the top of his chest. But she’s had a thought in her mind since she walked away from Armie that afternoon, so she says it out loud, “Timmy, do you think it’s actually possible to be in love with two people at the same time?”

He sits up again. “I do,” he says firmly.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and nods. She watches him watch her and thinks this is where they would kiss, his hand on the back of her neck, his bottom lip caught between her own, but they are too far away from each other so instead she says, “I don’t know if I think you can,” and she shakes her head, “I don’t know.”

“Sersh,” he says.   
  
“You should get some sleep,” she says, putting on a smile. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he says. “Night, Sersh.”

“Sleep tight,” she says before hanging up.

She misses his face as soon as it’s gone and finds herself reaching for her phone again not even five minutes later.

She texts him:  _that diner in chelsea._

He texts back right away:  ** _i cried at you for no reason there._**

She smiles even though the memory of his face crumbling breaks her a little, because it’s their memory.

_you had a reason.  
  
_ When he doesn’t respond, she texts him:  _the liquor store down the street from my apartment._

**_where you told me you were breaking up with greta._ **

_the elevator in my building._

**_we *both* cried. for our reasons._ **

She wants to collect all of their moments, everything that belongs to them and only them, gather them up in her hands and hold onto them. She doesn’t mind that so many of them are drenched in sadness, because it’s how they found each other.

_the balcony of your apartment in sacramento._

**_not technically new york, but. i kissed you. we both came out to each other. we started this whole thing._ **

_you and me._

**_you and me._ **

**Author's Note:**

> Timmy and Saoirse's texts at the end reference two other Timmy/Saoirse fics I've written on tumblr, if you want to read them: [diner in chelsea fic](http://elio-bonerman.tumblr.com/post/173246363645/hello-i-wrote-some-saoirsetimmy-angsty-friendship) and [balcony in sacramento fic](http://elio-bonerman.tumblr.com/post/174225627600/hello-i-wrote-a-timmysaoirse-thing-set-when-they).


End file.
